Amras the Stableboy
by Henry Plantagenet
Summary: How Boromir and Faramir's parents might have met...
1. Prologue

**Amras the Stableboy **

**Prologue**

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These were the moments he lived for…

He forgot the pain and the danger in the sheer exhilaration of the fight. His feet moved with the grace of a dancer. His sword shimmered through the air like a living thing, the arc of his elegant strokes catching the golden light of the sinking sun.

A nick here… a slice there… a sudden deadly thrust. A perfectly executed leap. His eyes were keen; his face flushed with excitement. And still he fought on.

They were large, muscular; stronger than he was. But he was slender and nimble. And his quick mind was always on its feet, thinking of clever ways to outwit them.

They were fighting harder now. And he fought harder too, his face a mask of concentration.

Hold on… hold on… I'll outlast them if I hold on…

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	2. Chapter 1

Amras the Stableboy

**Amras the Stableboy **

**Chapter 1**

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"But father, I cannot marry him. He's …he's…" Finduilas searched for the appropriate word.

"Fat," supplied her brother Imrahil.

"No, it's not that, father… it's just that…" she looked at her father helplessly. She could not find the words to explain it. There was something about the man her father wanted her to marry that she utterly disliked. Perhaps it was the fact that his conversation was limited to talk of his own achievements. Or maybe it was his smug assumption that she would marry him, just because her father wished her to…

"Father," she tried again, "may I not think about it a little, first? May I not be allowed to form an opinion of my own?"

"Of course you may," said Imrahil.

Prince Adrahil, lord of the great fiefdom of Belfalas, glared at his son, and then turned to his daughter with a gentler look. But before he could speak, a messenger ran into the room.

"My Lord," he said, "something terrible has happened…"

Prince Adrahil could have told from the boy's expression alone that something had indeed terrified him.

"What is it, my lad," he asked kindly…

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Finduilas quietly left the room. She ran up the stairs to her room at the top of the castle of Dol Amroth. Her window overlooked the grey sea, and she stared unseeingly out it for a while. Then, telling herself sternly that she should not allow herself to get so disturbed, she decided to immerse herself in useful chores. There was small pile of clothes in the corner that she had hastily changed out of before going downstairs to speak to her father. She picked it up now, and as she did so, something fell out of the pile. Finduilas smiled to herself when she saw what it was.

The door opened, and her bother Imrahil burst into the room. He picked up the object that she had dropped and was about to hand it to her, but stopped and looked at it in puzzlement. "What's this," he asked.

She smiled. "It's a wig. A boy's wig."

"But wha…" Imrahil stopped short. He was about to ask her what she planned to use it for, but he figured out the answer himself.

"You're carrying your disguises to an extreme," he said. "If you enjoy running along the sands of Dol Amroth why not go as yourself? Why do you need to borrow my clothes and hide your hair in a boy's cap, or wig, and call yourself my stableboy?"

"I've told you before," she said. "My robes get in the way and trip me up, and it is not seemly for a woman run along the beach. And besides, I sometimes like to be unrecognised and alone… but did you come up here to tell me something? What was it?"

"Ah yes. There has been an orc attack on an unknown messenger from Minas Tirith a few miles from here. The boy described it to us - I'm going to ride out with father along the North road, to take a look at the place where it happened. So goodbye for the present, Finduilas. "

"Goodbye, Imrahil – and do be careful…"

"I will. And in future, please take better care of my clothes," he said, glancing at the grimy bundle in her arms. He let his hand rest affectionately for a moment on her shoulder, and then rushed off to the stables in search of his horse.

Looking down at the mud and blood stained tunic and breeches, Finduilas now recalled something that she had forgotten to tell Imrahil. The heated conversation that she had had with her father had put it out of her mind. But now she remembered him. The man that she had taken to the Houses of Healing earlier that day … who had inadvertently ruined Imrahil's clothes. Could he be the unknown soldier who had been attacked by orcs?

"Imrahil," she called. "Imrahil…"

But he was gone.

Finduilas sighed. How could something so important have slipped her mind? What had happened was this…

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She had been running along the North road, when a voice called out to her. "Boy…" Her disguise was good, but still, she had not wanted to risk an encounter with anyone. And so she had ignored the voice and run faster. But the voice called again, and this time there was a note of desperation and pleading in it. "Boy…"

She had turned around and gasped in distress at what she saw. He was a soldier of Gondor – there was a white tree embroidered on his black surcoat. And he had been brutally wounded in a violent encounter of some sort. He needed help, and fast…

"What happened," she asked, her face full of concern.

"If I were a better soldier, more skilled in arms, nothing would have happened," gasped the man, in a feeble attempt at conversation. "But I'm an idiot you see… and a weakling, to boot…" He paused and swore, violently. "And if any further proof were needed of my weakness, I think I'm going to swoon and fall off my horse."

He grinned, despite his grievous wounds. "What is your name, boy?"

"I am Amras," stammered Finduilas. "Prince Imrahil's stableboy… I will take you at once to the Houses of Healing…"

"If I fell of my horse, which I have a feeling I'm about to do in a moment, you wouldn't be able to drag me there, you little runt…"

Finduilas grinned. "I am a strong little runt, Sir…"

"You have spirit for one so small… but what I'll do is this. I will lie down on my horse's neck and I will hold on to your shoulder for support…" The man sprawled forward onto his magnificent horse's neck, and reaching his arm downwards, rested his hand on Finduilas' shoulder, and asked "Amras" to lead him to the Houses of Healing.

"Now, I will have to keep talking to you, to keep my spirits up, or I will faint," he said.

Finduilas knew that he was seriously wounded, and perhaps in danger of losing his life. But she kept up a cheery conversation with the man, supporting his determined attempt to hold on until help arrived. If this is not bravery, what is, she thought to herself, while exchanging with him a stream of cheeky banter that amused him immensely.

"I challenge you, Sir, to a duel, when you are well again," said Amras the stableboy to the soldier.

"I hesitate to take on one so tall and strong," smiled the soldier. "But I must try to get over my cowardice, and so I accept the challenge."

"Prepare to meet your doom, Sir," grinned Amras the stableboy.

The soldier feigned a look of terror.

And in such fashion, Finduilas and the soldier reached the door of the Houses of Healing.

"And now I am going to surprise you," said the soldier. "I am now going to get off my horse and walk up the steps to the door…"

"No, Sir, do not try to do it. I will run inside and get help…"

But the soldier had climbed down from his horse. "I'm not going to faint," he said firmly to Finduilas. "I am **not** going to faint…"

So saying, he swayed slightly and crashed to the ground in a swoon at her feet. Amras the stableboy ran to the door and nearly battered it down. An old gentleman appeared, whom Amras recognised as the Warden of the Houses of Healing. The Warden ran down the steps and tried to lift the soldier and move him inside. But though a learned man, he was advanced in years, and so, lacked the strength to take the soldier inside.

Noticing his problem, and wanting to get the soldier inside as soon as possible, Amras the stableboy rolled up his sleeves and dragged the soldier unceremoniously into the Houses of Healing.

Having assured himself that the soldier was cared for, Amras the stableboy had run home. After checking to see that the coast was clear, he had run up to his room, taken off his wig, shaken out his long hair, and transformed himself back into Princess Finduilas of Dol Amroth.

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	3. Chapter 2

Amras the Stableboy

**Amras the Stableboy **

**Chapter 2 **

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Prince Adrahil and his son looked at the bodies of the dead orcs, noticing how sturdy and muscular they were. How had a single man stood up to them and survived? But had he survived?

"My lord, I have found the pack of the dead man," said Damrod, one of Prince Adrahil's soldiers.

"But Damrod, we do not yet know that he is dead," said Imrahil.

"Indeed, dear prince, but how could one man survive a battle against three orcs? Notice how much blood has been spilt. And notice…"

Imrahil wearily silenced Damrod with a gesture. Despite his youth, Imrahil had seen many wars. But death still had the capacity to move him. He was not, and could not be, callous and indifferent to it. This soldier, this unknown soldier, probably had a family and home in Minas Tirith … Whoever he was, Imrahil hoped against hope that he was not dead.

Imrahil's father, searching the man's pack for a sign of identification, drew out an official looking scroll of parchment and began to read it. And as he read it, the colour drained from Prince Adrahil's face. Imrahil looked over his shoulder to see what it said.

It was letter to Prince Adrahil from Lord Ecthelion, the Steward of Gondor, written in the Steward's own hand. It was a warm, affectionate message, congratulating Prince Adrahil on the happy news of his daughter's betrothal to Forlong, son of Falagar of Lossarnach.

"But she is not engaged to him," exclaimed Imrahil.

"Leave all that aside, and look at the very last line," said his father.

Imrahil followed his father's gaze down to the end of the letter. "…and as a token of my affection for you and your family, I send this message to you through my own son…"

Imrahil's hand clutched tightly, almost painfully at his father's shoulder.

"Father… it cannot be!"

Prince Adrahil's hand closed gently over the fingers that dug painfully into his flesh.

"Would that Lord Ecthelion had loved us less and sent a mere messenger... but it is wrong to say that – no man deserves to die in this manner," he said. "Imrahil, the heir of our liege lord has lost his life within the boundaries of our own realm…and so I am responsible… what will we say to Lord Ecthelion? And what fate will befall Belfalas, if its protector, the great realm of Gondor, has no-one to lead it in future?"

"The fate of our realm will be no different from that of leaderless realms in the lays of old," said Imrahil.

Prince Adrahil nodded, and quoted the words of an old song.

"…the woman sang out in grief,

of her worst fears, a wild litany

of nightmare and lament : her nation invaded,

enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles,

slavery and abasement…"

Damrod, who had sworn that the unknown soldier was dead, listened in growing concern to the words of Prince Adrahil and his son. And with renewed vigour, he began to search for some sign that the heir of Gondor might still be alive. Soon, he found one.

"My lord, I have found the hoof-prints of a horse leading away from here - perhaps it carried Prince Denethor to safety…"

"Or perhaps it bolted away riderless," remarked another soldier. Damrod tried to silence the man with a glance, but he refused to be silenced. "…riderless," he continued, "because every orc enjoys a meal of man-flesh…"

"Peace!" roared Damrod.

Then, turning to Imrahil, "I am sure that he is still alive, my prince," he said reassuringly. "Come, let us follow the tracks…"

Imrahil rode along with the others mechanically replying when they spoke to him, not knowing what he would find at the end of this ride. He dared not think of the worst, nor did he dare hope for the best. His head reeled with the images that flooded it, of a raven-haired prince, with his sometimes kindly, sometimes mocking smile.

'Oh Denethor,' he thought, 'I have watched the sunset with you through the falling waters of Henneth Annûn…with you I have watched fair Ithil hang like a silver lamp over the tall, proud peak of Min-Rimmon, lighting that Beacon of Gondor fiery white …and with you I have wept over the death of a young soldier whom we never knew…'

The soldiers stopped, dismounted and examined the tracks on the ground, animatedly discussing what they saw. Imrahil watched them, too distracted with worry to give heed to what they were saying. They moved on again and he followed them. Down the street, and up to the doors of the Houses of Healing. Imrahil followed his father and the soldiers up the steps, and waited with them for a response to their knock…

The doors opened and they went inside. Imrahil was listening now to what the Warden was saying. He was taking in every word. And then, he and his father walked with the Warden down a corridor and into a room.

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Asleep on the bed was a man with raven hair. Imrahil moved softly to his side, so as not to wake him, tears of joy in his sea-grey eyes.

He had expected to find a broken candle, snuffed out forever, but here it was, burning bright.

Imrahil gently squeezed the sleeping man's hand. He smiled, but did not wake. And then he spoke, almost inaudibly in his sleep…

"Amras," he said. "You cheeky little runt, you saved my life."

"Amras?" asked Prince Adrahil's voice behind Imrahil. "Who is Amras?"

Fortunately for Imrahil, this question was addressed to the Warden, and not to him.

Of course, it probably wasn't Finduilas, thought Imrahil. This person had been described as a "cheeky little runt," and Finduilas was always a model of decorum. And 'Amras' was a fairly common name.

"My Lord," answered the Warden, "I believe he is young Prince Imrahil's stableboy." The Warden bowed politely to Imrahil as he mentioned his name.

Prince Adrahil turned to look at Imrahil, somewhat puzzled.

"Do we have a stableboy of that name?" he asked. "I was not aware of it…"

The kindly Prince Adrahil took a personal interest in each and every member of his household, and knew every stableboy by name. He even knew the names of every stableboy's brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts.

"Perhaps the Prince of Gondor mistook the boy's name," suggested Imrahil.

The Warden opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He _knew_ that the boy's name was Amras. The boy had told him so himself. But somehow, it seemed rude to contradict the young Prince Imrahil, so the Warden held his peace.

After some further talk, Prince Adrahil realised that it was time for him to ride back to Dol Amroth with his soldiers.

"The men's families will anxiously be awaiting them," he said.

"I would like to wait here by Prince Denethor's side until he awakes, father," requested Imrahil.

Prince Adrahil's expression softened. He embraced his son.

"All is well, now," he said. "Stay as long as you wish, and ride home when you are ready."

"Thank you, father," said Imrahil. "I will."

Prince Adrahil walked out into the deepening twilight, and looked up at the stars. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel," he breathed. His soldiers joined him in a long moment of meditative thanksgiving, and then in thoughtful silence, with deep joy in their hearts, they rode back with their lord to the castle of Dol Amroth.

As they neared their destination, the road ran for a space along the ocean shore. They could smell the salt in the air, and hear the sudden roar of the breakers. Their lit torches flickered golden in the darkness. And when they turned and looked out over the inky black sea, they sometimes saw white lines of sea-foam suddenly appear and disappear, briefly gleaming pearlescent in the moonlight.

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Author's note :

Prince Adrahil's "old song" is a quotation from Seamus Heaney's translation of "**Beowulf**."

According to the Appendices of LotR, Denethor was very much older than Finduilas, and was in his fifties when Faramir was born. For the purposes of this story, I have made him a younger man - this is therefore non-canon. In my story, Denethor is in his early thirties, Finduilas is 25 and Imrahil is 20 years old.


	4. Chapter 3

Amras the Stableboy

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 3**

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Imrahil gently covered the sleeping form with a soft blanket, and walked noiselessly to the window. It was not yet dark, and the stars were just coming out…

Imrahil took a deep breath of salt air and rested his arm on the sill. The sea was calm tonight. His father had said that all was well now, and indeed it was. All the pent up anxiety that Imrahil had hidden from his men now found release, and Imrahil wept quietly before the sleeping ocean, the soft, gentle breeze caressing his cheek.

"Imrahil?" said a quiet voice behind him.

He turned and smiled at Denethor and walked back to the side of his bed. They said nothing to each other, but simply clasped hands. For a moment, Denethor forgot the pain of his wounds, and Imrahil forgot the terror he had experienced that afternoon.

"Imrahil," asked Denethor, "what could you see from the window?"

"Come," said Imrahil, "I will show it to you…"

He put his arm around Denethor and gently supported him as he tried to sit up.

"It's this leg," said Denethor. "This is the painful one…" He placed it gingerly on the floor.

"Put all your weight on the other one," said Imrahil, "and lean on me…"

They walked slowly, clumsily to the window, Denethor trying not to wince with pain.

The moon could be seen now and it had drawn a shimmering silver path across the sea.

The two men stood quietly at the window, one leaning on the other, looking out at the luminous path that fair Ithil had drawn across the dark water.

"The sea is calm tonight," said Imrahil, almost inaudibly.

"The tide is full, the moon lies fair upon the bay,  
And on the shore a torch gleams and is gone…"

Denethor remembered the poem, and in a voice almost softer than Imrahil's he spoke the rest…

"Ah … let us be true to one another,

for the world, which seems  
To lie before us like a land of dreams,  
So various, so beautiful, so new,  
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;  
And we are here as on a darkling plain  
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,  
Where ignorant armies clash by night."

He paused and smiled. "Is it as bad as the poet says it is?"

"I don't know," said Imrahil. His arm supported Denethor with a strong, reassuring grip. "You and I have spent our lives arming ourselves to battle a powerful enemy who waxes in strength with the passage of years… and we have long been aware that we are no match for his might…"

Denethor sighed. "Indeed we have."

"But I always took comfort in the thought that you would be there, like an older brother, to protect me, the might of Gondor, protecting Belfalas… but today I almost thought that that was not to be. And what a relief, what a blessed relief it was, to find you here!"

Denethor smiled. "Imrahil, it is you who have saved me – sometimes the younger brother protects the elder, too. It was your own stableboy whose timely help saved my life. He brought me here to be cared for, and now you are here yourself…"

Reminded once again of the stableboy, Imrahil asked the question that was foremost in his mind.

"What was his name?"

"You must send him here to see me, Imrahil, for I wish to thank him…"

"I will, my lord… but do you remember his name?"

"Amras was his name, and… Imrahil, this seems an odd thing to say, but he somewhat resembled you…"

Imrahil chuckled. "Some say that all the men of Belfalas look alike…"

"Only the ignorant would make statements like that," said Denethor. "But Imrahil, this wasn't exactly a resemblance. You now look like an elven prince, and this boy – he looked like a cheeky elven child. But for some reason, he reminded me of you…"

Imrahil's question was answered.

"As you requested, I'll send her here to see you," he said. Realising immediately that he had made a mistake, he hoped that Denethor would not have noticed the pronoun he had so carelessly used.

But Denethor, although weak and in pain, was as sharp as ever. "Him, not her," he grinned. "You are tired, Imrahil. You must go home and rest awhile."

Imrahil smiled, rather sheepishly.

"I will, my lord."

"Must you always address me in such a formal manner? I must have asked you a hundred times to call me by my name, and yet you will not."

"Good night, my lord Denethor," said Imrahil.

Denethor embraced him warmly. "Good night, Imrahil. And remember to leave out the "my lord" altogether, next time…"

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Author's note : Imrahil's quote is from Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach," (in which the English Channel has been converted into the Bay of Belfalas!)


	5. Chapter 4

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 4**

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This was his first visit to the castle of Dol Amroth after his encounter with the Orcs. Denethor could not yet ride a horse, and much to his shame, had arrived in a horse-drawn carriage. He grimaced as he dismounted from it – partly because of the still-painful wounds in his leg, and partly out of distaste at the mode of transport he had used. It wasn't even a war-chariot. It was the kind of vehicle a farm hand might use to take his grandmother to the farmers' market.

Imrahil, who had escorted Denethor to the castle, and had driven the said carriage, grinned good humouredly.

"Come now," he said, "you must not take your temporary disability so hard."

"How d'you know it's temporary," inquired Denethor. "I'll probably go down in history as the Cripple of Gondor…"

"Rubbish! You're going to be fine," said Imrahil, feigning a cheerful confidence that he did not in truth feel.

He cast a sidelong glance at Denethor. He had noticed that his friend and mentor had been somewhat dispirited over the past week, and that his injuries were not healing as quickly as the Warden had expected them to.

Denethor had changed over the past few years. When Imrahil had first met him, he had been young and spirited, and Imrahil had warmed to his sparkling wit. But of late, he had become sullen and morose, and seemed older than his years. Perhaps it was the weight of responsibility that Lord Ecthelion had placed on him. The Steward of Gondor was fair and just, but every one of his soldiers knew what a stern taskmaster he was. Denethor had worked hard to live up to his father's high expectations, and had, in the process, become unrecognizably stern and hard. But I must be special to him, thought Imrahil. For he once again becomes the smiling Denethor of old when he is with me.

Imrahil led Denethor into the library, and rushed off to tell his father that the Steward's son had arrived.

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Denethor drew a deep breath of sheer pleasure as he reached out and touched the rich, leather-bound spines of the books that lined the walls of the spacious hall in which he waited for Prince Adrahil. Golden shafts of sunlight poured in through the soaring windows. Outside, the soft, fresh foliage of the mallorns whispered in the breeze.

Why was the library of Minas Tirith not like this? Why was it housed in a dim underground cavern, with no trees smiling in through tall windows? Denethor heard the shrill cry of a sea bird, and craning his neck, caught a glimpse of it through the window – gliding effortlessly through the vivid blue sky, its crisp white wings glowing silver where they caught the light.

Hearing a step behind him, Denethor turned, and bowed to Prince Adrahil, who bowed too.

Denethor did not resemble his tall, muscular, fair-haired father in the least, thought Prince Adrahil. He was shorter and slimmer, and his hair, shorn at the shoulders, was raven black. But in his courtesy and dignified bearing, he was truly his father's son.

Lord Ecthelion's son had his father's dignity, thought Prince Adrahil, but in place of Lord Ecthelion's confident, self-assured warmth, there was something else here that was no less attractive – a shy, self-effacing affection for his father's friends that shone from his dark eyes when he smiled.

The son of the Steward of Gondor ought to have been officially welcomed to Dol Amroth with a Guard of Honour, but he had preferred to have this quiet meeting with Prince Adrahil instead. Prince Adrahil embraced him, and was sorry to see him wince slightly. Denethor's injuries would take many days to heal.

"Denethor, I have no choice but to chide you," said Prince Adrahil, after the opening pleasantries had been exchanged. "It is all very well to refuse to have a Guard of Honour welcome you, but refusing to travel to Dol Amroth with an armed guard! That was..."

Words like "foolhardy" and "dangerous" crossed Prince Adrahil's mind, but he chose not to utter them. Lord Ecthelion's son was pleasant, courteous, and even affectionate, but he was still the son of Prince Adrahil's liege lord.

Denethor smiled, as if he had read Prince Adrahil's mind. "Perhaps the word 'foolhardy' might be appropriate here, my Lord. But I was not travelling to Rivendell or Lothlórien. If a man is incapable of taking a short journey from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth without an entourage of armed guards, would you not agree, my Lord, that such a man is not fit to be called a soldier?

"But these are troubled times," said Prince Adrahil, "and it is vital that the heir of Gondor be safe."

Denethor bowed. "I have learned my lesson. And indeed, I must apologise for all the trouble I have caused you. You have been most kind..."

Prince Adrahil smiled. "It was nothing. But Denethor, I have to admit that there is something that I wondered about. I know you to be one of the most alert, accomplished soldiers I have ever met –" Denethor shook his head, and Prince Adrahil smiled in disagreement. "So how is it that you did not hear the Orcs approaching? How were they able to catch you unawares?"

Denethor sighed. "It is because of a foolish dream that I have long had, my lord. You have seen many times the dead White Tree of Gondor. That tree is our symbol, our talisman, and I have long dreamt of finding a living sapling, grown from one of its seeds..."

"And did you find one?" asked Price Adrahil.

"No, my lord," said Denethor, regretfully. "I thought I had. But it turned out to be a mallorn sapling, grown from the seed of one of the great mallorns that your elven ancestors had planted in that beautiful old forest, many years ago. It was pale in colour – it glowed almost silver in a shaft of light that filtered through the foliage. And as I gazed at it, I did not hear the footsteps of the Orcs, or the rustle of leaves as they passed through the underbrush. They were not armed for battle – I think they were simply looking for dinner. And man flesh is the easiest meal to prepare – no hair, no hooves..."

"Do not talk of things like that," said Imrahil, genuinely distressed.

Denethor shrugged. "Well, that was what they were looking for. But what sort of a world do we live in, if we cannot stop to look at the sunlight playing on the tender foliage of a tiny sapling without paying for it with our lives?

"A sorry world, indeed," said Imrahil's mother, entering the library.

Denethor bowed to the Lady Fíriel in awed silence. She was without doubt the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, and he was inwardly blushing furiously in embarrassment, although he maintained an exterior of gracious dignity. Women made him nervous, and beautiful women, more so.

Denethor smiled, and murmured his congratulations on the engagement of Lady Finduilas to Forlong of Lossarnach.

"But they are not engaged," said Prince Adrahil.

Imrahil grinned at Denethor's look of surprise.

"It's true, my lord Denethor, they are not! You have risked your life in vain to deliver Lord Ecthelion's letter."

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	6. Chapter 5

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 5**

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"Yes, it is owing to us that you have journeyed to Dol Amroth, and it is therefore our fault that you were so seriously injured," began Lady Fíriel, apologetically.

"Do not think so, my lady," interrupted Denethor at once. "It is I who was remiss enough to travel without guards, and it is I who was stupid enough to get injured." He gestured towards his injured leg. "These wounds are a sign of my ineptitude as a soldier."

Prince Adrahil had ridden on horseback to the forest clearing in which Denethor had been ambushed. He had seen the strong muscular bodies of the Orcs that lay slain there, and he had understood the magnitude of Denethor's achievement in bringing down all three of them.

"Denethor, you are a brave warrior, and have accomplished what few men could," he said. "Victory always comes at a price. Do not be ashamed of your wounds. Wear them with pride."

Embarrassed at the compliments that Prince Adrahil was lavishing on him, Denethor thanked him, smiled, and promptly changed the subject.

"Did you say, my lord, that your daughter is not engaged to marry Lord Falagar's son?"

"Not yet, my lord Denethor, but they might soon be," said Lady Fíriel. "The fathers of Forlong and Finduilas have been discussing the matter, but my daughter Finduilas has not yet given her consent. She has requested time to think the matter over."

Denethor nodded in understanding. Finduilas' request seemed reasonable to him.

"But Lord Falagar, being of the opinion that my sister's feelings need not be taken into account, has taken the matter as settled, and has even informed your father of it," began Imrahil, but was silenced by warning looks from both his parents.

"But how could he do that?" asked Denethor, somewhat shocked.

Imrahil's sister would have to spend the rest of her life with Forlong. Surely she was entitled to think about it a little before giving her consent to the marriage?

"Denethor," said Prince Adrahil, "it is an unfortunate truth that very few parents of Royal houses bother to consider a young lady's views on the matter of whom she will marry. They chose an individual who is, in their opinion, a suitable match for her, and expect her to abide by their wishes and marry the person of their choice.

"But surely you would not do that, my lord?" asked Denethor.

Imrahil snorted, and Denethor reddened in confusion. The matter was none of his business and he should not have asked Prince Adrahil such a question.

"My lord, I am a soldier, and know very little of such matters," he said, apologetically.

"But Denethor, isn't it about time you started taking an interest in such matters?" asked Lady Fíriel.

Denethor smiled. "No, my lady. I have chosen to distance myself from all such affairs – I have chosen not to marry."

Prince Adrahil and Lady Fíriel stared at him in surprise.

"Does Lord Ecthelion know of your choice?" asked Prince Adrahil.

"Nay, my lord," answered Denethor. "I do not talk of my personal affairs to my father. Our conversation is limited to military matters, and we most often discuss how exactly I have failed him on the latest task he has set me..." Denethor could not prevent a hint of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

"I am sorry to destroy your illusions, Denethor, but I do not think that your father would approve of this decision of yours," said Lady Fíriel.

"Why so? How could it affect him, my lady?"

Imrahil's mother smiled. "You are your father's heir. And who will be your heir?"

Denethor gave a horrified start, but quickly recovered his composure.

"I could always adopt someone, my lady."

Imrahil chuckled to himself. Denethor was a good twelve years older than Imrahil. He was a deadly warrior and a learned scholar. But in some ways, he was as naïve and innocent as a child.

To save Denethor further embarrassment, Prince Adrahil quickly changed the subject.

'And now, you must give me your word that you will never again venture out on a long journey alone, without the protection of an armed guard."

Denethor nodded politely.

All he had wanted was a bit of privacy – a break from being the Steward's son. He had wanted to enjoy the scenic journey from Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth at his own pace, without the intrusive presence of bodyguards. He had wanted the freedom to stop and admire the landscape whenever he wished to, without having to offer explanations to anyone...

Denethor silently swore to himself. But now it looked as if he would henceforth be obliged to have an armed guard accompanying him at all times. From one circle of Minas Tirith to another. From the Throne Room to his private chambers. From the dining room to his bedroom. And what would be the point of that? The Cripple of Gondor would still remain a cripple. A well-guarded, well-protected cripple.

Realising that some of his frustration might be showing on his face, Denethor hastily composed himself and began to engage in pleasant, innocuous small talk with Prince Adrahil, regarding the weather. And he took leave of Imrahil's father as soon as he could politely do so.

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A stab of intense pain coursed through Denethor's leg as he walked out into the garden with Imrahil. Denethor resolutely ignored it. Putting all his weight on his stout Lebethron stick, he tried to walk as normally as possible. Catching sight of a stableboy in the distance, leading a pony out for exercise, he stopped, looked again, and a delighted grin of recognition spread over his face.

"Amras!"

Finduilas had not been able to resist the temptation to steal a second look at the Prince of Gondor, now that she knew who he was. She had thought that he would take no notice of a boy exercising a pony in the distance. But Denethor's keen eyes recognised at once the boy who had come to his rescue and saved his life.

"If I were able to walk as normal, Imrahil, I would stride up to that boy, catch him by the scruff of his neck and give him a cuff on the ear," said Denethor, with a laugh. "But since I cannot, you must do it for me."

Imrahil gave his older sister an apprehensive look. If he boxed her ears, he would have to answer for it later.

"What has Amras done to offend you, my lord?" asked Imrahil, as the boy somewhat nervously approached them. Denethor looked down at Amras sternly.

"It is a whole week since I last saw you. Why have you never come to see me since then, Amras?"

Because I am a woman, and an intelligent, keen eyed man like you might very easily find me out, thought Finduilas.

Amras the stableboy smiled sheepishly. "My lord, I..."

"And why are you 'my lording' me, Amras?" asked Denethor.

"I now know who you are, my lord."

"And is that why you never came to see me?"

In fact, that was partly the reason, thought Finduilas. Amras had been extremely cheeky to Lord Ecthelion's son.

'Yes, my lord. I should not have spoken to you so disrespectfully..."

"Imrahil," roared Denethor, "I would box his ears if I had both hands free, but I cannot let go of this accursed stick, so why don't you do it?"

Imrahil gave Amras a wary look. "My lord, I..."

"Don't you start 'my lording' me too," said Denethor, and turning to Amras, he grabbed him by the ear.

"Do you not realise, boy, that you saved my life? If I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, does that mean that I must not have a sense of humour, and cannot enjoy a stableboy's cheek?"

Amras smiled apologetically.

"You are not at all as I imagined you to be, my lord."

"You thought, no doubt, that the Steward's son would be an offensive individual with an exaggerated sense of his own importance?"

Amras shook his head in distress. 'No, my lord, of course not..."

"But that is in fact what I am in Minas Tirith," said Denethor. "My behaviour there is dictated by my position. But here..." Denethor smiled suddenly. "...here, I can be myself. Here, I am a lazy oaf, aimlessly lolling around day after day in the Houses of Healing. Nothing for a stableboy to be frightened of."

Denethor reached out to affectionately ruffle Amras' hair, but Amras neatly skipped out of the way. What if he finds out that I'm wearing a wig, thought Finduilas of Amroth.

Denethor chuckled, caught Amras by the hand and dragged him back to his side.

"Did I offend your dignity, Amras?"

"Yes, sir."

Denethor nodded gravely, although his dark eyes were full of laughter.

"May I shake your hand, then, Amras?"

Amras held out a nervous hand, and Denethor gave it an affectionate squeeze, smiling into the boy's face.

"I cannot thank you enough, Amras," he said. "When I cried out for help, you answered my call. You came to me at once – and you saved my life. How may I express my gratitude to you?"

Holding on to his stick, Denethor suddenly, impulsively put his free arm around Amras, and rested his head on the boy's shoulder. "Do not be angry with me over this sentimental display of affection, Amras. But I don't know what I would have done without you."

Denethor had merely rested his head on Amras' shoulder, keeping himself at a distance because he'd needed to hold on to his stick. But what if he'd come any closer, and discovered her woman's shape...

That had been a narrow escape. Amras the stableboy looked flustered and embarrassed, and considered taking to his heels and running away.

"I...I would never be angry with you, sir," he said, "But men like us must not give in to unseemly, womanly displays of affection."

Finduilas of Amroth had appreciated Denethor's gesture of affection, but Amras the stableboy had had a bit of a shock, and needed to ensure that his disguise would not be penetrated.

Denethor chuckled. "Do you call yourself a man, Amras? Why, your cheek is as soft and smooth as a woman's. And that moustache you're trying to grow is an apology of a..."

"I think we'd better leave now, my lord," said Imrahil hurriedly.

"Yes," grinned Denethor. 'Yes, of course." And with Imrahil's help, he climbed into his carriage.

After Imrahil had settled him comfortably in the carriage, Denethor looked around for Amras, to say goodbye. And then an idea occurred to him.

"Amras, would you mind driving the carriage for us? I would like to talk to Prince Imrahil on the way back."

Amras, who had been about to scuttle away as fast as he could, gave Imrahil a mute look of appeal, which Denethor did not see, as if to say "please let me make myself scarce." Imrahil gave Amras an apologetic look, and handed him the reins.

Why had Finduilas chosen this particular moment to wander about in disguise, anyway?

He had been begging her to visit Denethor in her Amras disguise for over a week, and she had refused to do so, despite the fact that Denethor had kept asking to see Amras. A sharp, intelligent man like Denethor would find her out, she said, and she could not risk being exposed.

And then she had proceeded to walk around the garden dressed as Amras at the exact moment when Denethor happened to be there too. Her curiosity had probably got the better of her, thought Imrahil, and now she was paying the price for it.

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	7. Chapter 6

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 6**

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"Imrahil," asked Denethor, "Is your sister engaged to Forlong or is she not?"

Imrahil looked at Amras the stableboy's back. Amras' back looked as if it were all ears.

"My sister is not comfortable with the idea of marrying Forlong. But she is too much a coward to openly say so," answered Imrahil. "I've been asking her from the start to speak her mind, but she hesitates to do so. And the longer she hesitates, the harder it will be for her to speak when she eventually decides to do so."

"But why does she hesitate to speak her mind," asked Denethor.

Imrahil shrugged. "I don't know. It's sheer cowardice, I think. "

"Perhaps it isn't cowardice. Perhaps, being a lady of gentle temperament, she does not like to thrust her opinions on others," suggested Denethor.

Imrahil looked at him in surprise.

'How is it that without ever having met her, you speak of her gentleness and humility? You sound as if you know her!"

"That's how women are said to be," smiled Denethor. "They are gentle. They are kind. They wear skirts. They are skilled in arts such as embroidery. And they do not oppose the will of others."

Imrahil looked at Amras' back. Amras' back had an inscrutable look.

My sister wears my old clothes, a wig and a fake moustache and runs along the shore, thought Imrahil. She is skilled with a sword and could beat me in a duel. And yet, she _is _gentle and hesitates to oppose the will of others.

"Why don't you encourage her to speak, Imrahil? Why don't you encourage her to marry someone she loves?" asked Denethor.

"My sister is a cynic," said Imrahil. "She says that it is childish and juvenile for a real woman in the real world to dream of a handsome prince sweeping her off her feet. She says that in the real world, men are sorry specimens, and that she should be mature enough to accept the fact that she must marry someone less than perfect."

"That is a mature argument, Imrahil,' said Denethor.

"It is far too... I don't know. She should not take such a cynical attitude. It is true that the man she will marry might be less than perfect. But he need not be this far from perfection..."

Imrahil was silenced by the laughter in Denethor's eyes. He shrugged. "I think that my sister deserves better, that's all."

"Your sister must be beautiful," said Denethor.

Imrahil shrugged. "She's all right."

Denethor smiled to himself. Judging by Imrahil's parents, and Imrahil himself, he was sure that Imrahil's sister was not just "all right."

"If you wished to marry a woman," burst out Imrahil in disgust, "would you be so crass as to ask your father to speak to her father? Would you not woo her, express your love to her, try to win her over and then propose to her?"

"The second option seems a lot more tedious and time consuming than the first," said Denethor. "So, yes, I would ask my father to speak to the lady's father." He grinned at Imrahil's horrified look. "You are a hopeless romantic, Imrahil."

"Indeed, I am not," said Imrahil hotly. "And I am sure you do not mean what you just said."

Denethor grinned apologetically. "I'm afraid I do," he said. "What on earth would I say to a woman, Imrahil? And what woman in her right mind would fall in love with someone who looks like me? Women make me nervous. I cannot even wish a lady a good morning or pleasant day. So proposing to one of them is quite out of the question."

"You speak of women as an elf would speak of a dwarf," said Imrahil.

Denethor smiled. "In fact, I do regard them as an elf would regard a dwarf. I still remember the elaborately overdressed dolls that my mother would introduce me to, when she was alive. I never could think of a thing to say to them. I could not spend fifteen minutes in their company, let alone a lifetime."

Frustration flooded into his voice.

"Imrahil, every idiot on the street has the right to choose his own profession. But I have no choice but to eventually become the Steward of Gondor waste my whole life on countless futile battles against Mordor that will wear me out and send me to my grave insane.

"And Imrahil, every fool on the street has the freedom to choose whether or not he wishes to marry. But as for me, it is my duty to breed hordes of crude replicas of myself, in order to perpetuate my line..."

Denethor looked so upset that Imrahil tried to convert his smile into a look of sympathy. But all he could manage was a smilingly sympathetic look. He put his hand on Denethor's arm.

"It might not be so bad..."

'Oh yes, it will," snapped Denethor. "Your father and mine are nothing but farmers, bringing together livestock of the right pedigree to create more livestock of the right pedigree. It sickens me!"

Denethor's was speaking passionately now, and had unwittingly raised his voice.

"Come, now," said Imrahil, "you need not look at it like that. If you find someone you love, the ugly chore might instead become a beautiful journey."

Denethor growled in reply, and glared at Amras' back.

"Even young Amras here has the freedom to choose whether he wishes to marry and whom he wishes to marry. But I do not."

Imrahil looked at Amras' back. It was still inscrutable.

"...and as for falling in love," continued Denethor, "I happened to look in a mirror this morning, Imrahil – not out of vanity, I hasten to add, but simply in order to comb my hair – and I saw in that mirror nothing that would be likely to inspire the love of a woman."

Amras the stableboy spoke up all of a sudden.

"You are too harsh on yourself, my lord."

Denethor looked up at Amras' back.

"Would you fall in love with me, Amras?"

"You forget, my lord, that I am not a woman," answered Amras.

"And that fact is easy to forget, Amras, because your soulful blue eyes with their long curling lashes would be much better suited to a woman's face, and..."

Amras the stableboy stiffened in fear, and he decided to speak no more for fear that his disguise would be found out.

"If Forlong can think of getting married, I don't see why you can't," said Imrahil, quickly changing the subject.

"Forlong knows his limitations as well as I do. Neither of us would attempt to win a woman's love. No. The father will speak to the father, and that will be that."

"That sort of negotiation might be suitable for Forlong, but not for you or me," said Imrahil.

Denethor smiled. "No, Imrahil. You could make a woman fall in love with you. For that matter, you could make hundreds of women fall in love with you. But Forlong and I..."

"Do not speak of Forlong and yourself as being alike," growled Imrahil. "He is not aware of his limitations. In fact, Forlong of Lossarnach is not aware that he has any. He thinks he's irresistible to women..."

Denethor grinned. "He might be -- who knows? Who knows what women think? And who can understand them?"

"I can understand them, my lord."

It was Amras who had spoken.

Denethor's grin widened. "You know all about women, Amras?"

"Yes I do, my lord."

"And what do you know about women, Amras?"

"They have minds that think, my lord. They have feelings that can be hurt. They are not commodities to be sold for the purpose of breeding the heirs of princes."

Denethor chuckled. "Why, I'd never have known that! I'd never have known it if not for you, Amras. I've always thought that women are singularly unintelligent, and that they should know their place, and that they exist for the sole purpose of breeding heirs for useless men..." He burst out laughing at the look on Imrahil's face. "Don't look so shocked, Imrahil. Amras understands my sense of humour. Amras knows that that was a joke – don't you, Amras?"

"It wasn't funny," said Imrahil.

Denethor and Imrahil looked at Amras' back. It was more inscrutable than ever.

But unbeknownst to them, Amras the stableboy smiled to himself.

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	8. Chapter 7

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 7**

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The warden had lit a fire for him, and his room was warm and comfortable. Yet Denethor felt restless and irritable as he warmed his hands by it.

Time. He had too much time on his hands. Too much time for his mind to drag him off to places he did not wish to go...

His mother. She was a distant memory, when she ought to have been a living, breathing walking human being. Most people his age had mothers who were still alive. It had been some ten years since she died. But the wound was fresher than the orc-wounds he had received a few days ago. Denethor mentally snuffed that thought out like a candle. But others took its place...

Friends. By virtue of being heir to the Steward of Gondor, he had a lot of friends. Fake friends. He could count his genuine friends on the fingers of his hands – no, on the fingers of one hand... Denethor slammed an imaginary door in the face of that thought, and shut it out.

His father... every fool on the street had the right to choose his own vocation, but his father had denied him that right. Just as Imrahil's sister seemed to have been denied the right to choose her own husband, he would have to be the Steward of Gondor and that was that. He felt a strange kinship with Finduilas of Amroth, whom he had never met. Did she feel as helpless, frustrated and impotent as he did? Being a woman, probably more so...

And like Finduilas, he too would probably have to spend the rest of his life married to some strange person whom he neither liked nor disliked, but just barely tolerated...

There was a hesitant knock at the door.

"Come in," called Denethor politely.

It was the wounded soldier from the next room. The lutenist.

Denethor hated the man with a most unreasonable hatred, although he had never spoken to him. All the man had done was to sing all day to his devoted lady love, who seemed always to be in his room with him. But the lutenist's songs infuriated Denethor for reasons he could not fully explain. It was indecent of the man, he thought, to so publicly express his delight in the company he was keeping, when there was an utterly lonely person in the next room...

Denethor smiled at the lutenist, and reached for his stick to stand up to greet him.

"No, please don't get up," said the man at once, noticing the bandages on Denethor's leg. He walked up to Denethor's chair and bowed courteously.

"I am Aeron, soldier of Dol Amroth."

"And I am Thor," answered Denethor, "soldier of Gondor."

Denethor had specifically requested the Warden of the Houses of Healing not to reveal his identity to anyone, and was enjoying his stay there as an anonymous soldier of Gondor.

"I came to ask if you would care to join us downstairs for an evening of music," said Aeron. "Anyone here who plays an instrument, at whatever level of skill, will play for us, and the rest will sing, or listen, as they wish. Will you come?"

Denethor nodded. "Thank you. It would be a pleasure..."

"And do you play an instrument," asked Aeron.

"Yes I do – I play the harp, but I do not have it here with me..."

Aeron's face broke into a delighted grin. "Wonderful! I will find you a harp to play..."

"But first, you will have to help this cripple down the stairs," said Denethor.

Aeron put his arm around Denethor's shoulders. "Do not think of yourself that way. These wounds will heal before you know it."

"You don't know what it's like," said Denethor. "Their swords must have been tipped with Orc-poison."

"So you're in pain all the time, and hungry all the time, too, because you cannot hold down a single meal, and you cannot sleep at night," said Aeron.

And this soldier of Gondor is far from home, and lonely too, he thought to himself, but did not say so.

"How did you know," asked Denethor.

Aeron smiled. "The Orcs are generous with their poison. I have had my share of it too. But come - let us forget about it for a little while. I'll help you down the stairs..."

And just yesterday, thought Denethor as he walked downstairs with Aeron's help, I was contemplating breaking his lute over his head.

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Aeron found him a beautiful harp. Denethor fingered the strings somewhat nervously as he looked at the circle of expectant faces, waiting for him to begin. He had always played to himself in the privacy of his own room. He had never played for an audience as large as this one before.

To waste some time before he began, he cleared his throat, and then looked down to wipe the sweat off his hands with his handkerchief. And that was why he did not notice a new addition to the circle. Amras had come to return to Denethor a cloak that he'd left behind in the carriage, and had found him here.

The still strings of the harp burst into movement, vibrating golden in the firelight, coming to life at the urging of his graceful hands. At times, the touch of his fingers was gentle and caressing, and at times it was bold and strong...

And the harp began to sing a song of searing pain that moved Amras and the other listeners to wonder where it came from.

What was the source of this beautifully sad stream of grief that welled out of the shimmering harp strings, moving them almost to tears?

They did not know, and they could not ask. Denethor's face was impassive, and something in his look warned them not to probe too deeply. Yet they could not be silent.

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"Who is she?" asked Aeron.

Denethor's dark eyes lit up in amusement. "Who is who?"

"The lady of whom your harp sang – whom your harp loved and lost..."

Denethor smiled. "My harp wasn't intelligent enough to think of loving her until he'd lost her."

He chuckled at the lutenist's puzzled look. Taking a sip of wine, he continued.

"You see, my harp's best friend had a beautiful sister... but he did not think of falling in love with her until she was engaged to someone else..."

Aeron grinned and took up the story. "I see it all now. Your harp paid little or no attention to her, not noticing her virtue or her beauty, until there came one day a perceptive man who saw her as she truly was. But by then it was too late..."

Actually, thought Denethor, I have never met Finduilas of Amroth at all, and from what I hear, Forlong is not a perceptive man...

But he did not contradict Aeron. He nodded to Aeron, and patted his harp affectionately, as if it were a living creature. "Yes, by then it was too late. And so, my harp, you weep by the fireside for what you have lost..."

The men burst out laughing and Denethor joined them.

"What is your name," they asked. "And where are you from?"

They warmed to this soldier with his tall tale, his ironic smile, and his immense musical talent.

"I am from Minas Tirith," answered Denethor. "And my name is Thor..."

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"Why," wondered Amras as he slipped out of the room unnoticed, 'why does he not tell them who he really is?"

Instinctively, the stableboy guessed the answer. 'Thor' was at that moment being warmly welcomed into a close-knit circle of musicians. But were it known that he was Denethor, heir to the Steward of Gondor, that warmth would have faded into respectful civility.

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"Why don't you wait here, my boy," said the Warden kindly, showing Amras into Denethor's room. "He will be up, shortly, and you can give him his cloak when he comes."

'Thank you, sir," said Amras, gratefully accepting the chair that the Warden had placed for him before the fire.

Looking around the room, the Warden grunted in disapproval, as he caught sight of the tattered blanket on Denethor's bed.

"The people here do not know that he is the Prince of Gondor, but here in these Houses of Healing, we would not give a blanket as tattered as this one to even a wounded Orc... I don't know what Morwen was thinking!" The Warden removed the blanket from the bed with a look of utter distaste. "I'll be back soon with a respectable one," he said, and rushed out, the old blanket thrown carelessly over his shoulder.

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Amras the stableboy stared thoughtfully into the fire for a long while. His best friend's sister. Does he have a closer friend than Imrahil? I very much doubt it. And it's true - Imrahil's sister is engaged to be married... at least the whole world thinks so, even if I do not...

Amras the stableboy sighed as he looked at the merrily crackling flames. Denethor, Prince of Gondor, you asked me in the carriage a few hours ago if I could fall in love with you. And Denethor, of the ebony hair and warm, dark eyes, my answer is...

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Amras was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of the door opening. And in came a man with ebony hair and warm, dark eyes. Amras tried to look as if he were a stableboy delighted to meet the Prince of Gondor. But he suspected that the look on his face was more akin to that of a woman in love.

"You left your cloak behind in the carriage, my lord," said Amras the stableboy. He forced himself to frown sternly at Denethor. "You are so careless, my lord."

Denethor grinned. "My apologies, Amras. But perhaps I was not careless. Perhaps I left the cloak behind on purpose, so that I would get to see you again."

Amras' expression softened. "Why would you want to see me, sir?"

Denethor chuckled. "Why indeed! Why would anyone wish to see a cheeky rascal like you..." his voice trailed off as he noticed his blanketless bed, and his smile turned into a worried frown. "I thought I left it here - but perhaps it's in my pack..."

"Are you looking for your blanket, my lord," asked Amras, as Denethor limped across to his pack and began to rummage furiously through its contents.

"Yes, Amras, have you seen it?"

"The Warden took it away, my lord. He said it looked disreputable and he's gone to get you a better one..."

"Which way did he go," asked Denethor, grabbing his stick.

"I'll follow him and bring it back, my lord," said Amras, springing to his feet.

"Would you do that for me, Amras? That blanket was woven for me by my mother. I never travel anywhere without it..."

"I'll get it back at once, my lord..." Amras rushed out of the room and a moment later, Denethor heard his feet clattering down the stairs.

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Some minutes later, Amras was back. And in his hands were the two halves of a torn blanket. "I tried to stop her from tearing it. But I was too late... the Warden was shouting at Morwen for putting it on your bed. She kept insisting that she'd never seen the blanket before. And they wouldn't let me get a word in. And then, in her anger she tore it in two... I should have stopped her. I'm so sorry..."

A lone tear dripped down Amras' nose.

"Hush, now," said Denethor gently. "It was not your fault. And you did your best to get it back for me."

"I will mend it for you, my lord."

The poor lad is probably worse at sewing than I am, thought Denethor. But he'd probably feel better if I gave him a chance to make amends.

"Would you do that for me? That would be wonderful, Amras," he said kindly.

"I'll make it like new for you, sir. Would you mind if I did a bit of embroidery over the seam, to cover it up, sir? Or would you like to keep it as it is?"

With great difficulty, Denethor stopped himself from smiling.

"Embroidery over the seam? That would be lovely," he said gravely. "But why should you trouble yourself so much, Amras?"

"It would be no trouble at all, my lord."

"Would it be an affront to your dignity if I gave you a hug, Amras?"

"Er... yes, sir."

"Then, you'd better get out of here as fast as you can," said Denethor. "For sometimes, Amras, I feel very fond of you, and then I cannot answer for my actions."

Amras the stableboy took to his heels and ran.

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	9. Chapter 8

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 8**

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Denethor sat on a smooth rock, idly trailing his fingers in the warm sand.

The Warden of the Houses of Healing had asked him to exercise his wounded leg by taking a daily walk along the sands. The first few times, Denethor had dutifully tried to comply with the Warden's instructions, by manfully limping along the beach until he could stand the pain no longer. But of late, he'd taken to lounging on the beach instead. He would walk to the beach, sit down on his favourite rock, meditate on the sea and sand, and then walk back to the Houses of Healing. Amras had tried to dissuade him from doing so. But he'd had to be firm with the boy.

Denethor propped his chin on his knees, and gazed out at the sparkling sea. There he was again. The blasted boy was running along the sands, close to the water, taking an occasional leap to get out of a breaker's way.

Denethor watched him with a benevolent smile, admiring the boy's agility and lightness of foot. Once his leg had healed enough to allow him to do so, he too would run along the beach like Amras. The boy's obvious enjoyment of his running was beginning to cure him of his laziness...

No. He could not allow that to happen. For how often did an opportunity to be lazy present itself to him? Almost never. It would therefore be a shame not to make the most of the present one.

It was a rare opportunity to have all the time in the world to do nothing. He had, for a space, stopped being heir to the Steward of Gondor. He had cast off all the responsibilities that position entailed – the endless rounds he'd had to make along the borders of Gondor, from frontier to frontier, working tirelessly to ensure that Gondor stood strong against all enemies.

Instead, here he was, lounging on a rock, lazily following slow westward progression of the sun through the evening sky.

This was also a welcome break from his personal training. For a while, he could not work to perfect his own skills as a warrior, either. His injuries prevented him from doing that. And so he was forced to take a break from continuously training and tuning his own body, to keep it lean, muscular and fit.

Instead, he could sit aimlessly on a warm rock, doing absolutely nothing. Why, he didn't even have to sit. He could lie down. Denethor gracefully slid down from the rock into the sun-warmed sand and lay there, luxuriating in its warmth.

And what a relief it was not to have to play the official role of the Steward's son either – now there was no need to appear dignified or seem intelligent. What a pleasure it was, thought Denethor, to be an ignorant idiot lazing contentedly on the sand.

But his reverie was soon to be interrupted. Amras, a broad grin on his face, was running towards him.

"How are you, my lord? Are you taking regular exercise, as the Warden asked you to, my lord?"

Denethor grinned. "Do I look as if I am?"

Amras surveyed him sternly, his hands on his hips. "You do not keep your promises, my lord."

"Indeed, I do," Denethor protested. "I am a man of my word!"

"You promised me that you would get well soon, and fight a duel with me," said Amras. "But you are..."

"...wallowing in sloth and making no effort to pull myself together?" asked Denethor.

Amras could not help smiling.

"Yes, Sir."

"But Amras," asked Denethor reasonably, "what would be the point of my working hard to recover, if at the end of it all, you're going to have a duel with me and send me straight back to the Houses of Healing?"

Denethor grinned to himself and rolled over onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms. The boy had no answer to that.

No verbal answer. But Amras, after staring in frustration at Denethor's prone form for a moment, suddenly gave Denethor a gentle kick, in an effort to get him to rise.

With a roar of rage, Denethor sprung to his feet. Taking a look at his face, Amras sped away as fast as he could.

What have I done, thought Finduilas in horror. He has become such a good friend that I have started to speak to him as I speak to Imrahil - and treat him as I treat Imrahil - and kick him ... but I have never kicked Imrahil. At least, I don't remember ever having done so...

A heavy hand descended on Amras' shoulder. Amras stopped and turned to look at Denethor, wondering what form the retribution would take. But Denethor suddenly let go of Amras and looked at him for a long moment, in thoughtful silence.

"Do you realise what I just did, Amras? Do you understand what just happened?"

Amras shook his head, trying to look as apologetic and remorseful as he could.

"Amras, I ran all the way from that rock, in pursuit of a cheeky stableboy.  
I ran, Amras. Without a stick. And not feeling any pain.  
Amras, I thought I'd never run again."

Amras gave Denethor the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. And Denethor smiled back.

Amras the stableboy and the Steward's son walked the sands together, their long shadows trailing in the evening light over the still-warm sand. After a while, one shadow took the other shadow's hand.

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	10. Chapter 9

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 9**

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Finduilas sighed.

The beautiful lady who looked somewhat dispiritedly out of her mirror sighed too. Forlong of Lossarnach was riding to Dol Amroth with his father, and would arrive that evening. And Finduilas had a choice of two courses of action, (both unpleasant,) from which to choose.

She could take the easy way out, agree to marry Forlong, and spend a lifetime trying to pretend that she was happy. Or she could take the harder way – she could refuse to marry Forlong, and face recrimination, arguments, and unpleasantness all around.

She knew that her mother and father would fully support her either way. But it was not easy trying to explain her views to them. Not easy, because she wasn't very sure what her own views were.

Her parents' logic was simple: Finduilas was a princess, so she should marry a prince. Forlong was a prince. A very valiant prince, too. He was therefore the right person for their daughter. And why, they wondered, should their daughter hesitate?

Strangely enough, Imrahil understood why.

Imrahil understood her unspoken need to fall desperately in love with the prince of her dreams, who would sweep her off her feet. Her brother had startled her by openly speaking of this secret prince of her dreams to her parents – urging them to wait for him to appear. But how did he know of her secret prince? She had never, ever spoken of her secret prince to Imrahil.

In fact, she had only recently started to regard her brother as an adult.

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Finduilas smiled to herself as she remembered the patter of feet that she would suddenly hear behind her as she sat before her mirror. A cheeky little boy, who looked like an elven child, would enter the room, and ask if he could help her get dressed. And Imrahil would set to work on her long, golden hair with frowning concentration - plaiting it into braids of various lengths and thicknesses, decorating it with ribbons of many colours, and, as a final touch, inserting into it ornaments that were not meant to be used for her hair at all.

She would never complain, although she knew that it would take hours to undo his handiwork. She would patiently allow him to complete his work to his own satisfaction, and reward him with a kiss when he was done.

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Was Imrahil right to urge her to wait for the prince of her dreams? Perhaps it would be more realistic and mature to accept that such a person might never materialise. Perhaps it would be prudent to marry a real prince instead…

That was what she had thought.

Until a wounded soldier of Gondor had ridden into her life in a tunic soiled with mud and blood, and fallen in a swoon at her feet. And now the prince of her dreams had a face and a name.

But…

There were so many ifs and buts.

What would Denethor think if he discovered that she had been deceiving him all this time with her Amras disguise?

Would he not be incensed – too incensed to ever forgive her? And even if he did forgive her her trespasses, could she dare to hope that he would one day come to love her? And holding on to the very slim chance Denethor might someday fall in love with her, would it be right to refuse a real, concrete offer of marriage from a real, concrete (and in fact, stout) prince?

She had once heard Denethor speak of his harp's broken heart. That evening, Denethor had almost named the princess of his dreams. But the "Finduilas" of Denethor's dreams might be very different from the real Finduilas of Amroth.

She very much doubted that Denethor's dream princess would wear a false moustache and run along the sands…

She smiled to herself again. It was rather a good moustache, though. She was proud of it. That moustache added a touch of verisimilitude to her disguise. It was a moustache that was there, but almost not there, as if Amras was trying to grow one, but not succeeding too well…

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She heard the door open behind her, and the light tread of adult feet entering the room. A tall prince, who looked like an Elven lord, entered the room. "May I help you get dressed?" asked Imrahil's deep, baritone voice. Finduilas smiled and nodded.

He brushed her hair till it shone. Then he enhanced the natural beauty of her hair with a delicate braid here, a braid there… And finally, he placed a golden circlet on her head, with a glowing jewel on her brow.

"There!" he said, standing back and observing his handiwork with satisfaction.

"Thank you, Imrahil," she said with a smile.

She used to have to bend down to give him the kiss that was his reward. But now, her tall brother had to lean down to receive it.

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	11. Chapter 10

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 10**

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Falagar of Lossarnach rode comfortably with his retinue to Dol Amroth, in the afternoon sunshine. He and his son had just lunched well, and all was right with the world. Falagar stifled a contented burp. He always made it a point never to travel without his three favourite cooks.

Falagar glanced at his son, who was riding by his side, and beamed with satisfaction. The valiant Forlong was invincible with an axe in hand, and he had grown rather handsome, too. The lad looked dashing in his maroon cloak, his smart moustache, beard and flowing ponytail. The oval gemstone dangling from his ear glittered in the sunshine. And he was growing sturdier by the day. Why, he'll soon be as fat as I am, thought Falagar of Lossarnach, with fond paternal pride.

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"An Oliphaunt! An Oliphaunt!" cried an unidentified voice.

Snapping out of his reverie, Falagar turned to the soldiers in his entourage. "Search the forest," he ordered. Taking up their spears and axes, his soldiers rushed to do his bidding.

"Not all of you," snapped Falagar, his chins quivering in indignation within the depths of his luxuriant beard. "Have you no sense of responsibility? Do you not realise that some of you should stay here to guard us?"

A section of the guard obediently started to trace small circles around Falagar and Forlong's horses, while the others set off to comb the forest in search of the Oliphaunt.

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A young farm hand named Hamfast, hidden behind the hedge, watched in horrified fascination.

"You're in trouble!" chuckled his friend Japheth, in obvious delight.

"Shut up," hissed Ham, clapping a trembling hand over Japheth's mouth.

Seeing two portly horsemen making their stately progress down the road, Ham had not been able to resist comparing them to an equally portly animal. But his voice had unfortunately carried a little farther than he'd intended it to.

Ham and Japheth hid behind the hedge for what seemed like hours as Falagar's men searched the forest on the other side of the road. But the soldiers finally reappeared, to report that the elusive company of Haradrim, presumably waiting in ambush with an Oliphaunt in tow, was nowhere to be found.

Falagar and his men resumed their journey to Dol Amroth.

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As they approached the outskirts of the city, Falagar's thoughts turned to the royal family of Amroth.

"Adrahil is a good man," he said to his son, "but not assertive enough. He has become so accustomed to licking Lord Ecthelion's shoes, that he no longer has a mind of his own. Why, he's even started discussing important matters, such as Finduilas' marriage, with his wife and daughter!"

Forlong nodded in agreement. He, too, had been surprised at the extent to which Prince Adrahil consulted with his wife and daughter.

"It is strange, father, that Finduilas should be allowed to voice an opinion on the matter at all," said Forlong.

'She will no longer be allowed to do so," chuckled Falagar. "I've taken care of everything, my boy!"

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Forlong grinned. His father was a genius. He had sent a messenger to Lord Ecthelion of Gondor, to inform him that Forlong and Finduilas were engaged. "That, my boy, will take care of everything," his father had said. "Once Lord Ecthelion congratulates Prince Adrahil on the happy news of your engagement, the good Prince will no longer have the courage to say that his daughter and his wife have not yet given their consent to it."

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"But I was worried, father, when you sent that messenger to Lord Ecthelion…" said Forlong.

Falagar smiled knowingly. "You mentioned your fears to me. But I told you they were unfounded."

"Lord Ecthelion is our liege lord," said Forlong. "We are obliged to obey his every command. If he had commanded us to break the engagement, in order that Finduilas might marry his own son, we would have had no choice but to obey…"

"You do not know Lord Ecthelion, my boy," said Falagar. "He is obsessed to a fault with the high ideals of the Kings of old. He would never abuse his authority over men like us." Falagar of Lossarnach grinned. "In this case, his ideals of justice and fair play work to our advantage."

"But would it never have occurred to him to have his son betrothed to the most beautiful Princess of these regions?" asked Forlong.

"Strangely enough, I don't think the idea has ever occurred to him, my boy. Lord Ecthelion is so obsessed with matters of state – military matters – that he gives little thought to the needs of his son."

"Fortunately for me," said Forlong, thinking of the beautiful princess with whom he was genuinely in love.

"And do not forget, my boy, that you, unlike Denethor of Gondor, have a father who is aware of your needs."

Forlong smiled. "How can I forget it, if you never allow me to do so?"

"Ha! You jest!" said Falagar good humouredly. He could never be angry with his own son.

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	12. Chapter 11

**Amras the Stableboy**

**Chapter 11**

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In the castle of Dol Amroth, Forlong of Lossarnach waited impatiently to see his lady love. She would soon be his, thought Forlong, thanks to his father's brilliant maneuvering of the situation.

Prince Imrahil politely offered him a goblet of wine, and Forlong accepted it with a gracious nod. Imrahil asked him about the famous encounter with Orcs that he'd had several months previously, and Forlong launched with enthusiasm into his favourite topic of conversation – himself.

Forlong described to Imrahil the special technique he used to effectively decapitate an orc, and then went on to recount in graphic detail the appearance of an orc that had been unfortunate enough to receive such treatment at his hands.

Imrahil listened, feeling slightly sick, to technical descriptions of Orc heads being expertly hewn off by the masterly strokes of Forlong's axe, followed by poetic descriptions of the blood gushing out of the necks of decapitated orcs. He listened with a look of admiration that gratified Forlong and inspired him to greater heights of eloquence.

If Finduilas married Forlong, Imrahil wondered what his nieces and nephews would be like. His sister might visit her family at Dol Amroth every winter with two portly axe-wielding sons, called Boromir the Bore and Faramir the Fat. Or would the older one be known as Boromir the Boar?

Imrahil looked up and was startled to see his mother signalling to him from the doorway. He excused himself and left the room under the pretext of fetching more wine.

"Imrahil, where is Finduilas," asked his mother in an agitated whisper.

"Did you look in her room," asked Imrahil. "I last saw her there."

"Yes," said his mother. "And I have looked in your room, and ours, too, and indeed I have searched the whole castle."

"Did you check the stables?" asked Imrahil.

His mother frowned at him in frustration. "This is no time to jest, Imrahil. Go at once and look for her!"

Imrahil went.

He could guess where his sister was, but he could not tell his mother about it.

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Imrahil's guess was right. Amras the stableboy had, in fact, gone for a run along the sands.

The affair of the Oliphaunt had delayed Forlong's arrival, and Finduilas, waiting alone in her room, had found herself getting increasingly nervous.

She knew that a good run along the sands would cure her of the present attack of nerves, but was there time for it?

Perhaps there was - she would be back as soon as she could...

Finduilas transformed herself into Amras in record time, and was soon running along the sands, humming a little tune to herself.

Her alternate identity opened up so many possibilities.

There was so much that Amras could do that Finduilas of Amroth could not.

Amras did not have to lead the caged existence of a beautiful lady. He could jump in the water - he could run along the beach, with the wind in his face. Sometimes, in his headlong rush, he would fall on his face in the sand. And he wouldn't bother to pick himself up. He'd simply roll over in the warm sand and look up at the gulls circling the air above him.

And then he'd eventually get up and run on... sometimes nimbly leaping out of the path of the rushing waves, sometimes jumping right into them, splashing water high into the air.

And then Amras would return home, wet tired, muddy and happy, with all his problems forgotten.

But on that particular day, Finduilas' problems could not so easily be forgotten.

Forlong would be arriving any moment, and she wasn't sure what she thought of him.

She did not dislike him. After all, he had paid her the compliment of falling in love with her, and he was the first man ever to have done so. But she somehow could not feel comfortable with him. Perhaps that was because his thinking and hers were so different. When they talked, it was a strain for Finduilas to find any common ground with him.

It did not seem right to reject him outright, as he was so ardent an admirer of hers. But somehow, she found the prospect of marrying him deeply disturbing... she could not explain why.

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Not knowing that his sister was on her way back, and was only a few minutes away from the castle, Imrahil made his apologies to Forlong.

"I regret that my sister is indisposed, and cannot see you now, my lord."

"I hope it is nothing serious!" said Forlong. "I have come all the way from Lossarnach, to see her, and..."

"She sends you her sincere regrets, my lord, and hopes that she will be well enough to meet you on the morrow."

Forlong of Lossarnach could not hide his disappointment, and it was only with difficulty that he stopped himself from erupting in anger at Finduilas' infuriating brother.

He and his father had just arrived and had been welcomed with a Guard of Honour by Prince Adrahil himself. After which, Imrahil had shown them to the luxurious wing of the castle that was to be their temporary home. Falagar, tired by the journey, had suggested that they meet with Prince Adrahil's family the next day. But Forlong, who had been impatient to meet Finduilas, had dressed himself up to the hilt and rushed off to meet her on his own.

And now, to say that he was disappointed was to put it mildly. He had endured a long conversation with Imrahil for Finduilas' sake, and all for nothing. Forlong was livid.

But his father had impressed upon him the importance of being on his best behaviour at Dol Amroth. "Forlong," he had said, "Try to be as charming and polite as you can, or you will lose the support of Finduilas' parents. And they might decide that you are not the right person for their daughter..."

Forlong managed to produce a strained smile.

"Please convey my regards to the lady Finduilas," he said, "I hope she will soon be well."

Imrahil gave Forlong a charming smile that infuriated him all the more.

"You are most kind -" he began, but Forlong cut him short by bowing low to him and stomping out of the room.

He did not immediately go back to his father. He needed some time to himself, first. So Forlong of Lossarnach saddled his horse and rode angrily down the road.

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Finduilas, in her Amras disguise, neatly leapt over a stile and ran at breakneck speed along the road to the castle, hoping she was not too late.

Hearing the sound of a horse's hooves approaching her, she stopped and looked up.

Forlong of Lossarnach paid no heed at first to the wet, muddy stableboy who stood by the road, watching him. But when he looked at the boy again, something about the rascal's wide-eyed stare infuriated him.

"Why do you stare so impudently at your betters?" he barked.

The boy shrugged, apologetically.

Forlong halted and glared at the boy, who reddened up to his ears.

"I am sorry, my lord," said the boy almost inaudibly.

But Forlong, who had been searching for an outlet for his anger, was glad to have found one.

He descended from his horse, advanced threateningly upon the boy, and all of a sudden, violently boxed his ears.

"Let that be a lesson to you," he snapped.

He turned on his heel, mounted his horse, assumed an expression of immense dignity, and rode on.

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